


In the End is My Beginning

by wheredwellthe_brave_atheart



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: AU in which Mary and Bash talk ever, But I'm not bitter at all, F/M, Mary is everything, Reign is so good but so very bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 03:25:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6687235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheredwellthe_brave_atheart/pseuds/wheredwellthe_brave_atheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>""I'm lonely, Bash," she whispers, closing her tired eyes. For queens are destined to stand apart, as rulers, as symbols of their people, pillars of their countries, as idols of women and images of God on Earth. 'Hail Mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee.' And it wasn't enough."</p><p>Set after 3.07, since Mary deserves some comfort from a forgotten friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the End is My Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I actually wrote some Reign fic after a year of obsessively (gleefully!) watching this terrible show, but oh well, I did, and I'm posting it before I finally give up on the show. 
> 
> This is basically because Mary is alone and abandoned and grieving and for Christ's sake Bash is still in B-plot territory while they shove a trillion new characters down Mary's throat, but oh, well. 
> 
> Title is from a quote of Mary, Queen of Scots.

The corridors are deserted at this time of night, and her skirts swish and footsteps echo down the long halls as she runs from nothing, from everything, breath tearing at her lungs and tears slipping from her eyes.

She doesn't know where her feet are carrying her, only that every option, every possible place of solace, seems inadequate. Even Catharine's chambers don't seem a source of comfort, when the woman has been her ally in their shared grief these past desperate weeks.

So she runs blindly through the palace, through the halls which once called her _daughter, wife,_ and _Queen_ , and now whisper _guest, widow, foreigner, Scot-_

She turns a corner and a pair of strong arms halt her flight. She blinks out of her panic, pulse pounding, and looks up dazedly into Bash's worried face.

"Mary-" he starts, shocked, but she shakes herself free and avoids his searching gaze.

"What are you doing awake?" she demands, as if their roles were reversed. As if she was still his Queen.

He keeps his distance, giving her space as her chest heaves and eyes dart around the darkened hallway. "Patrolling," he explains, one hand brushing back his long cloak to reveal his sword. He peers at her, concerned. "Are you alright?"

And here is the comfort she had been seeking tonight. Francis's death had plunged her into a position of isolation and weakness. She realizes, in the span of an instant, how little company she's kept, how little time she's spent among people whom she could call friends.

And Bash-

Really, she hasn't called him friend since her wedding. And now he is the only one left to her.

Mary feels an ache of something forgotten, a memory from so many lifetimes ago, and she sighs, weary with all the choices she could never make.

"I've missed you," she confesses, only just realizing how grateful she is for this moment with him. "Bash, I-"

Her throat catches with the unfairness of it all, that their time together was buried, forgotten, in only the short few years that's passed since her wedding to Francis. And now, he too, is gone - her beloved husband and Bash's dear brother snatched away so quickly it sometimes feels as if he never existed, as if her great happiness with Francis was just a beautiful dream. Already, she feels older than he - her memories are filled with two bright, fey people, with a king not quite a man but no longer any kind of boy, someone handsome and determined and full of the recklessness of immortal youth. She feels aged, beaten, and cold.

She tries again. "Bash, I can't bear it all, without him, and I feel so alone - Lola's with Elizabeth, Greer is no longer my lady, even Kenna never returned-"

His face shifts at the mention of his once-wife and her erstwhile friend, and she recognizes his look of heavy solitude, as it's wrapped around her like a shroud.

"I'm lonely, Bash," she whispers, closing her tired eyes. For queens are destined to stand apart, as rulers, as symbols of their people, pillars of their countries, as idols of women and images of God on Earth. _Hail Mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee_. And it wasn't enough.

His face is, as always, so full of secrets, but for the first time in many seasons she sees a look akin to understanding in his eyes - the look that says _I'm here, I see you, I hear you, Mary. I know you._

"I miss him, too, Mary," he nods, voice trembling around the mention of his brother. "I can't imagine the depth of your loss." He steps closer and puts a comforting hand on her arm, his wide palm warm against her cold skin. "I'm sorry if I haven't been there for you as much as you've needed."

How like Bash, to beg forgiveness for a sin he did not commit - or, at least, could not be helped.

She sighs, stepping back to lean against the cold stone wall of the castle.

There's too much and too little between them, so they're connected now only by a fine thread which will not break. As Francis's wife, she barely noticed it, but without her husband by her side, Mary is bereft of support, and she grasps now at that thread like Ariadne in the depths of the labyrinth.

"Bash-" she begins, haltingly. "How is it, that- that I have so little power over my own life-" her voice breaks and she blinks back tears, frustrated, aching.

Bash shakes his head. "Because you are a Queen, Mary," he explains, as though she did not know. "And you put your country before everyone, even yourself." He shrugs, standing against the wall with her. "Especially yourself."

Mary frowns, and leans into his strong shoulder, feeling the scrape of rough castle stone against her back.

"I wish I didn't," she confesses, softly. "I think I would be happier."

She feels him shake his head again. "No," he says, frankly. "You wouldn't be Mary if you were glad to be selfish."

"Oh," she gasps. "Oh, Bash. I wish I could see myself as you do." She's struck by the weight of his words - if only it were true, if only she was stronger, braver, better. If only she could be enough.

She swallows, guilt and grief gnawing at her throat. "I wish I could be the Mary you see," she whispers.

Bash reads between the lines, like he always does. His brow furrows, the corner of his mouth pulling down. "Be the Mary you are," he says, facing her once more, voice soft and low. "And no one will ever need anything else."

She looks up at him, then, his profile lit by the flickering candles along the hall. She remembers those first few lonely weeks back at court, and a lone winter spent apart from Francis by painful choice. Bash always knew what to say, then, too.

_If Francis has you, why would he ever look anywhere else? Your presence is light.  
To see you smile is to feel the sun, Your Grace._

It would be so easy to step closer, to break the thread between them with a kiss - to feel Bash's warmth, his strength, his steady heart beneath hers, now when she is so lost and afraid.

But she flicks her gaze to his and feels all that they once had crowded between them, and it's enough to make her release her breath and look away, dizzy.

What a tragedy, to love both men, but always Francis more.

What a tragedy, to love with the head of a girl but the heart of a Queen.

He lifts his chin and places one hand on the hilt of his sword again. "Don't keep yourself so apart, Mary," he advises. "It's not good for you to feel so alone."

He gives her a small smile as he reaches out a hand - it's generous, full of nothing but kinship, and Mary finds, in the midst of everything, it's enough.

She takes his hand and stands upright off the wall, following him into the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> Hear me when I say that Mary, Queen of Scots, was tremendously remarkable, and that I have an undying love for all things 16th-century Europe, and also when I say Reign is dramatic and beautiful to look at and sometimes quite astute, but that it strays from what makes it good too often, in my opinion. 
> 
> Let me know what you thought!


End file.
